


Lost Like Tears in the Rain

by tonightless



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Episode: s04e09 Lancelot du Lac, F/M, Love Triangles, Partner Betrayal, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonightless/pseuds/tonightless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>L is for Lancelot, the bravest and noblest of them all. You already had a knight in shining armour; a golden knight with golden hair and a golden crown, and you left him for another man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Like Tears in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [C.O.M.E. B.A.C.K. T.O. M.E.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/593071) by [wawrthur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wawrthur/pseuds/wawrthur). 



  **ೋ**

╔════════════════════╗

  
 _"I'm a thousand miles away_  
 _and I'm out of oxygen,_  
 _and I'm falling faster than I'd like to be;_  
 _and I'm closer to the sky,_  
 _than I'll ever be to you again…"_

_\- Fightstar, Lost Like Tears in Rain_  
  
  
╚════════════════════╝

 

 

 

 

 **L** is for Lancelot, the bravest and noblest of them all. You already had a knight in shining armour; a golden knight with golden hair and a golden crown, and you left him for another man.

L is for lover. Did the gold of your knight deter you? Did his blazing glory draw your lips to another's; pull your trembling hands over their bare skin? Was that how your gaze fell upon Lancelot, the bravest and noblest of them all?

L is for lust and love and lying. They came with your second knight, your always-knight who lurked in the shadows, and he did not deny you when you came. It was too easy to betray. Your husband's name was uttered once, and then it died on your tongue.

Once.

You forgot to remember, and now…

 

 

 **O** is for odium, and outrage, and the shape of his mouth when he found you: entwined with his sworn brother. Words poured from him like blood from a wound, impossible to stem. The blue in his eyes was fading as he spoke – "you are mine. You… my  _Guinevere_. You are  _mine_ ".

His tongue was clumsy. Stumbling. His throat was raw.

His gaze ran over your bodies. Pressed together. Lips inches apart. Lancelot's arms around your waist, yours around his neck. You remember how your king did not move for a heartbeat, and another. And another. How he masked what pain flickered across his face...

The light in his eyes sputtering, flickering, dying.

_You remember watching him die._

You remember careless, blissful nights with Lancelot, too, and desire and kisses and being cradled in his arms. There were doubts, weaving webs of self-hatred each time you touched your noble knight but there were also pounding hearts, pulses, mouths, skin –

It was so easy. Too easy to be devoured by deceit. You hunted for a motive, something beyond satisfaction. There was nothing.

You thought of your Arthur, then; of his gentle touch and golden hair and golden crown and his slow, crooked smile.

And you remember watching him die.

**  
S** is for silence. The trial was done. Lancelot's death was warranted, though your beloved spares you. You do not know why. He only watches with lifeless orbs; watches you stagger to your feet.

He rests his hands on your shoulders. Brushes his lips against yours. You shiver, and it is then you long for him again. You dare to kiss him, cup his face with your hands, attempt to breathe your life into him – but he is unwilling. His eyes wander away from yours, drifting over your shoulder, doused in emptiness, so you search for emotion in his features, his body, his irises and –

There is nothing.

He loves you, but will not let himself be loved. Only fucked.

**  
T** is for temptation. For taking. You took Lancelot to his bed night after night, and now your king takes whomever he pleases to his. If you pause at the door, you hear his low voice. Laughter. The whore's groans and squeals and the creaking of the bed.

You picture your betrothed's eyes – alight, manic, intense, burning,  _burning_ … you feel his hands on your back, your arms, your legs, hips, chest, shoulders, neck. If only he understood it was not him, but you.

For Lancelot was a luxury, one you could not truly afford. And he was as tender as your golden knight, his mouth as soft… did you love your always-knight? He unearthed a part of you your king did not, filled a space your king could not. Yet his hands, his fingers, calloused from the reins of horses and the hilts of swords, unearthed memories of your betrothed; of his hands and the trail of fire they left on your bare flesh and you remember…

 

 

 

 

 

**ೋ**

 

 

 

 **L**  is for loss. The loss of everything real; everything you loved. You had your king, but he is no longer yours. The Pendragon drinks by day and fucks by night, lost in the wild world he has created.

"One betrayal too many," you hear him slur to his manservant one evening after too much wine, and your king stands – broken, broken,  _broken_ until his body will not obey him the way it should. It jolts and jerks and shudders and twitches.

Merlin is murmuring to your golden knight, leading him away. Merlin blames you, and he enjoys reminding you of your sins in everything he does. He talks of your selfishness and thoughtlessness and cruelty. He tells you the work of the last ten years is meaningless, because even he, Emrys, cannot save your king.

"You have doomed Albion," Merlin says. "You killed him."

You know. You  _know_ , but cannot turn back time, only remember. You remember watching him die. But apologies mean nothing; for you fell to your knees before your golden knight and tore your heart from your chest and he sentenced your lover to death.

You have lost them both, just as you have lost your mother, your father, your friend, your brother. You cannot reclaim your king. You cannot fix him. So you walk the castle corridors, day after day and night after night but they are lightless and cold and littered with the past.

You keep your head bowed, always. And you pray.

**  
I** is for insanity – your husband's insanity, his destroyed hopes and twisted recollections…

He came for you once; pulled you close. Inhaled your scent. You copied him. The aroma of alcohol and sweat overrode his normal earthy odour, one that came from long days in the wild world with his knights…

But the wild world has spawned in his head. He looks down at you, face blank. A film settles across his eyes. He runs a hand along your jawline, the touch unhurried. Delicate.

Teasing.

"My queen." He steps back; disentangles himself. He is drunk, and there must be one of his many whores awaiting him in his chambers. Dusk is nigh. But his voice is just as intoxicating as the wine.

"My king," you reply, his hoarse words ringing in your ears. This is the first time you have communicated with him since the trial, back when you begged for forgiveness, screamed your confession to him. When tears had coursed down your cheeks as though the oceans were inside you… he was dead by then,  _you remember watching him die_ , and you can remember Merlin. He had been stood to the right of your golden knight, smirking. His diamond eyes had pierced your skin with the vehemence only hatred can concoct.

"Am I just your king?" He moves forwards again. His head nuzzles into your neck. You stiffen. He chuckles, Adam's apple vibrating against your breast. You are too conscious of the furious pulse in your jugular, resting against his temple. He only raises his head and smiles at you.  _Smiles_  with sunken eyes and mournful lips…

**  
K** is for king. Your king. Every woman's king.

"I fuck them all," he whispers. His arms snake around your waist. He is shaking. "I fuck them all until I can't keep my eyes open… until we're both bruised and sore and bloodied and weary."

Gently, your golden knight rocks you from side to side. His breath is hot and damp against your ear, the words creeping into it low and emotionless. He is closer than he has been in so long – too close, grinding you against him as if he wills the Gods to meld you both into one –

"I  _fuck_ them," he breathes, "like you fucked Lancelot."

**  
E** is for eyes. They watch you constantly. Follow you endlessly. Judge you incessantly.

Even his, except they are unseeing.

 

 

  

 

 

**ೋ**

 

 

 

 **T**  is for truth. You do not need a reason to give it to yourself, but you gave it to your husband. You spoke of every emotion under the sun with all the honesty you could salvage. You were on your knees before him, speaking of love with a ragged heart but in your heart of ragged hearts – you know.

You know you would not have let Lancelot go if your golden knight had not dragged him out of reach.

**  
E** is for execution. Did your lover know you had watched from your chamber window? Did he know you had attempted to visit him?

Was Lancelot, the bravest and noblest of them all, afraid?

The axe fell at your betrothed's signal, biting deep into the traitor's neck.

**  
A** is for Arthur, but he is gone now.

You remember watching him die.

**  
R** is for revenge, your king's revenge, as brutal and pitiless as yourself.

He fucks whores night after night to prove he does not trouble himself with his adulterous wife. You are a weed in a meadow of flowers, a weed he wishes to scorn and mock and deride. So he fucks. Fucks with their bodies as eagerly as he fucks with your head, uncaring. Dead.

R is for retracing. You cannot hope to forget all there is to remember, for R is also for rose garden, and within you and your golden knight had clung to each other as if the world were seconds from ending. Just days before he unveiled the truth. Just days before you watched him die.

You have learnt the kisses of a dead man are dispassionate. Insincere. Hollow.

R is for regret.

**  
S** is for the senses your beloved lost after exposing your treachery. He hasn't endeavoured to find them.

S is for starvation. You are hungry for affection. No one smiles anymore, least of all at you; fewer are capable of keeping eye contact. You are spoken to for matters of state only – unless it is Merlin who greets you. You hide from him often; in a nondescript guest room, at the top of the West Tower, anywhere where his scathing insults and accusing glare cannot reach you.

S is for stealing. Your husband stole Lancelot; took his head as the price of his treason, just as you stole the hearts of both knights. Once, your golden knight had more of your heart than Lancelot. Once.

You still do not know when that changed.

 

 

  

 

 

**ೋ**

 

 

 

 **I**  is for introspect. It digs deep into your bones and will not shift. It is your penance. For Arthur. For Lancelot.

For Arthur.

It stops you sleeping; lends you waking nightmares and more saline to hang from your eyelashes. You do not know why you gave into another man, even if it was Lancelot. And you do not want to look inside yourself – not when your reflection is a stranger and your mind is in turmoil. It is a boiling, rolling, unspeakable mess of sentiment.

There is a stone heart held in your palm. Your betrothed's heart. You do not know how to transform muscle and blood into a lump of rock, but you wish your heart could match. You wish you were as numb and cold and empty. Every moment is shadowed by your sin and you are supposed to die of madness, of grief – but you will not let your king prevail in your unspoken war.

I is for insatiable. I is for the innocence you shall never be able to repossess.

**  
N** is for naivety, back when you promised yourself to him. You dreamt of being his queen as you scrubbed your mistress' floors. You imagined the day you would wed him whilst washing her clothes. You were so young, so free… so careless.

N is for never.

 

 

 

 

 

**ೋ**

 

 

 

 **T**  is for trapped, tears, torn, thinking.

The cycle does not end.

 

  
 **H**  is for honour – just one of a thousand things which slipped through your fingers. Things like honesty. He deserved more than lies, more than stolen glances at Lancelot when you thought Merlin was not looking, more than secret nights in Lancelot's bed. Your king deserved more than you and yet you were… you are  _his_.

**  
E** is for endless and exploitation. You were fools, Lancelot and you both; he for following his heart, you for growing addicted to him. His scent. His mellow eyes. His taste. The curve of his back. You should have stopped – you should have never begun – but you never reined in your urges, never fought against your conscience. You did not ask if it was love drawing you towards your always-knight.

He was not yours to use. You were Arthur's, Arthur's by the ancient rite of handfasting. You  _are_ Arthur's because your heart, oh your heart… but Lancelot…

 

 

 

 

 

**ೋ**

 

 

 

 **R**  is for remembering. You will always remember.

You remember watching him die.

 

 **  
A** is for air, answers, ashamed…  _Arthur_. Oh, Arthur. Your Arthur. You need him, crave him, and he will not satisfy you. He does not want to fuck you or kiss you or think of you and he has not touched you for three moons.

He has his whores. They drown the memories of you with his arousal, his bursting veins, his heaving torso. They wash them away with their action until he is empty-headed, thoughtless – blissfully so – and then he fucks all the more ( _he doesn't know any of their names and he doesn't want to know; he cannot see their faces and he does not want to see_ ), makes them beg as they make him beg.

Once, it was you. Only you that he would brand with his fingerprints, his kisses, the words he whispered. Once, the only juices that had wet the sheets were yours and his.

 

 **  
I** is for inevitability.

You should have seen it coming, and you should have saved him. Your Arthur. Your golden knight.

You should have known he would not save himself.

**  
N** is for nothing. You hold him, bleeding, damaged, dying even though he's dead and he looks up at you through his eyelashes. Golden eyelashes. Blood dribbles from his mouth; flows onto your hand, the price of your infidelity.

You took too much, and you have lost it all. Your king is dying in your arms and it is his own knife locked in his ribcage.

"I didn't care about any of them. They're just people, just sluts, just whores, just – just  _toys_ ," your beloved rasps. His eyes – alive again, joyous at Death's call – fix on your cheek. He is trying to meet your tear-washed gaze.

He cannot.

"I hunted for desire." His bloodied hands curl around the skirt of your dress. "I wanted to find the same... what we had, when we made love. I failed. I couldn't find… I found  _nothing_. I was made for you, and you. Betrayed. Me."

His eyes flutter; he swallows. The blood pours.

"You broke me, Guinevere. You. Were. Mine and – and I was yours. I gave myself to you. I trusted you and – and you were…  _mine_." His blue eyes flutter like butterfly wings and he rasps now, rasps through gritted teeth:

"I love you. I love you so much that I can't  _love_. I hate you. I look at you, look at your face and you kill me. Your face, just your face,  _kills_ me. I kept you… I kept you as a reminder of my idiocy. Of the trust I placed in the wrong people. Morgana, Agravaine…" He swallows. Tilts back his jaw, shudders in your arms...

"I swore… I never would mistrust again. I can trust no one. I  _am_  no one.  _You_ have me. You were mine. You loved me… once upon a time, you loved me. I know you did. I know you… I kn… I... you should have given me  _back_."

 

 

 

 

* * *

**ೋ**


End file.
